Torchwood Actors and Local Wildlife

After a couple of weeks of angst, stress, and crying, my subconscious delivered with a good laugh in a dream last night.  It starts out angsty, but gets weirder and funnier as it goes on.  The ending is a bit outre, so you’ve been warned.  Also contains an update on our most recent animal addition to our neighborhood.The dream starts off that I have finally arrived at a hotel for a conference after a rather harrowing drive from the airport to find–my parents are there.  The desk clerk wants to put me in a room with them and I yell “”NO!”  Jeez, can’t I even go to an out-of-town work event without the parents hanging over me?  I insist that I have a separate room, and they give one to me, and the dream breaks there.

Next that I remember, I am getting dressed to go downstairs.  Somehow, my mother has managed to find me and is critiquing my clothes.  For some reason, I am wearing a blouse I had in college, a weird light green and peach floral that I thought was pretty when I was twenty, but now I’m wondering what I saw in it.  I’m running late and don’t have time to change, and what the hell, it’s work, for crying out loud.  I’m not on the prowl for guys; it doesn’t matter what I look like; it’s what  I say.  It looks presentable enough, albeit a bit retro, and the wrinkles from being packed will eventually work their way out.  I run out of the room with my shoulder bag and some campus mail envelopes to the sound of my mom still yelling after me as I run down the hall.

I get downstairs and realize I have the campus mail envelopes and am thinking “Why the hell did I bring these?”  Instead of doing the sensible thing, which is putting them in my bag to deal with later, I decide I need to take them back to my room.  I go to the elevators–and the elevators are no longer there.  It’s a large control panel.  Exasperated, I hear the bell for the elevator–which is now down the hall.  I take off running and manage to just catch it.

In the elevator is Naoko Mori, talking on her cell phone.  She looks at me, really annoyed, and keeps talking.  I go to punch the button for floor 12–and now there are no buttons, just a dial, and none of the numbers on the dial are 12.  I must have been cussing out loud, because Naoko puts her hand over the phone and tells me to turn the dial to where the number should be based on the other numbers.  I’m fiddling with the dial as she gets back to her phone call, then she stops and tells me to turn it to the tower for her.  I think “That’s a weird name for a floor; is it like the Tower of London? How morbid.” But there at the top of the dial is The Tower, so I assume it’s like the penthouse suite, which would make sense that a celebrity would be staying there.

So finally, we’re standing there waiting for the elevator to move.  It’s soooo slow.  Finally, the door opens and I dart out, only to realize it’s not my floor.  It’s a floor that has been made into a very large upscale liquor store, with wine racks and hanging baskets on the balcony (yes, a balcony in a liquor store; that seems like a poor choice of architecture).  I think I’ve gotten off on the wrong floor, so I turn to the elevator, and written on the door is 12.  No, I got off on the right floor, but the floor is no longer where my room is.  So where the hell is my room?  I’m fumbling around in my bag, juggling the mail envelopes, trying to find my room registration and can’t.  Meanwhile, I’m waiting, and waiting, and waiting, for the elevator.  Exasperated, I try to find a stairwell, but there are no stairs on this floor (again, a poor–and illegal–architecture choice.  Bad subconscious).

At this point, a door I hadn’t noticed opens and out walks Gareth David-Lloyd, followed by a fawning fangirl who is chattering non-stop.  He is trying to be polite to her, but he is very clearly annoyed.  He is holding a clean but empty highball glass in his left hand, straight up, with the bottom wrapped in a white bar towel.  I assume that he’s going to go mix a drink, but he doesn’t.  He walks up and stands next to me to wait on the elevator, the chattering fan girl in tow.

As he’s standing there next to me, I notice that he’s wearing his rings and his wristbands, but the wristbands (and his wrist watch) look distorted somehow, like they’ve shrunken.  The face of the watch is distorted like one of the droopy Dali clocks, sticking up at an angle from the mount.  I’m looking at it fascinated, trying to figure out what the hell would cause leather, metal, and glass to warp like that when I see his knuckles are banged up like he’s been bare knuckle fighting.  I sneak a peek at his face, which looks fine.  Curiousier and curiousier.

Meanwhile the obsessively nattering fangirl is really starting to be a pain.  Gareth is studiously trying to ignore her, and I am getting really uncomfortable.  Whatever is going on between the two of them, I don’t want to get involved, but at the same time, the tension is building up to a really unbearable level.  I’m trying to decide if saying something will break the tension or make things worse.  The girl is going beyond decent boundaries and is just being downright obnoxious at this point.  I want to slap her, and I don’t know how he’s managing to keep his cool with this chick.  Then I realize there is another girl in the room.

She is standing slightly in front of us, to Gareth’s right.  How did I miss her?  She is holding in her arms a very large red squirrel.  Startled, I focus in and realize that it is not a real squirrel, but a plastic dog chew toy, a very ugly reddish-brown (a fake version of real squirrel color) with a very large fluffy tail.

As I’m looking at this woman, and feeling the tension coming off Gareth to the point that I’m about to scream, the woman puts the squirrel face down on a table by the elevator.  Because it is a plastic chew toy, its arms are not movable, and it looks like it is standing on all fours.  She then pulls up the squirrel’s tale to reveal a perfectly realistic squirrel anus–so realistic that the sphincter muscle is moving in and out like it’s getting ready to poop.

I am absolutely aghast at this point, and quite literally gobsmacked (yes, I’m one of those people who actually does cover her mouth when she’s astonished).  That movement catches Gareth’s eye (the squirrel didn’t?), and he follows my gaze to the woman who is now taking a blow dryer, putting it right up to the squirrel’s still moving butthole, and blowing air on it.

Gareth looks at it, absolutely still for a moment and then, deadpan, turns and leans down to whisper in my ear.  I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but all I remember was that it was absolutely filthy and the funniest thing I’d heard in ages.  I completely lost it and started  howling with laughter, which then woke me up.

Better to wake up laughing than crying for a change.

Also on the animal front—

As I was trying to get out of the subdivision to get on the highway to go to town for my hair appointment, I nearly rear-ended a van full of kids that had stopped right in the middle of the road.  They were hanging out of the car yelling and pointing and as I looked–there, across the road, was that damn rooster I saw last week.  For heaven’s sake, kids, it’s a ROOSTER.  We are in the country.  It’s not like Godzilla is lumbering through the cornfields.

Anyway, the rooster was not terribly concerned with the gawking kids.  He was too busy highstepping across a drainage ditch.

So now I have a mystery to solve–who does Mr. Rooster belong to?


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